Blood Echo

by Rice, Christopher

  “Well, I didn’t. Jesus Christ. Why is it light? She’s my most valuable test subject.” The words Complete Elimination strobe across his brain so brightly he almost says them aloud. “Who called in the arrest of Clements?”

  Scott says, “We’ve got eyes on the ground, for sure, but those eyes are not attached to people who are strike capable in the event of a real threat. That would require a different type of personnel, and Ed gave the impression it was outside our budget.”

  “A different type of personnel? What does that mean?”

  Scott says, “Ed opted for digital surveillance primarily. He said you already had the equipment on hand, so it made sense. But the manpower, it was getting stretched thin, specifically with the Seattle operation. Unless you started using more outside contractors, and he thought that wouldn’t be safe.”

  “We have men all over the world. How are we suddenly having a shortage?”

  “He said he couldn’t use just anyone. He said they all had to be briefed on Project Bluebird, and that meant he had to trust them first.”

  It takes Cole a second or two to realize his splitting headache and spinning vision are the result of the fact that he’s not actually breathing. This is beyond Ed having been obstinate, or difficult, or overcautious. This is something else, and he’s having trouble admitting it.

  “Tell me the Med Ranch is intact,” Cole says.

  “Absolutely. And it’s fully operational. But they’re just doctors there, Mr. Graydon. They’re not strike capable, either.”

  Under no circumstances can they let Charley walk into a regular doctor’s office or even an ER. Not for a cold, not for a broken leg. While her Zypraxon exposures don’t seem to be leaving any telltale traces in her system for now, who knows when that could change? And given the email from Kelley Chen the other day, who knows what might develop inside of Charley’s blood? Or what might never develop.

  “I’m probably not going to want to hear this,” Cole finally says, “but what’s our response time if there’s an attack on Charley?”

  “However long it takes a team to get here from San Diego or San Francisco.”

  Scott barks, “That’s an exaggeration, Fred.”

  “Only slightly,” Fred says. “But let me just say this before I get fired. I know that Ed and I go way back, but I’m not some Baker loyalist here. This situation here’s a mess, and I flagged it constantly. And apparently he never took it up the ladder like he promised.”

  “What’s the point of a system that monitors everything that happens here if we can’t do anything about it? What was his plan? Fly a cloud of microdrones into Prescott’s house if someone moves on her?”

  “He was afraid, sir,” Scott says. “Of your mother and the board finding out about all this. He kept talking about silent partners coming onboard, and once they did, you’d have more funding and we could up our game on the ground here, but until then—”

  “Bullshit,” Cole whispers. “This is sabotage. He wanted a security failure out here so he could make a case for throwing her in a lab forever.”

  After a moment of brittle silence, Scott says, “I’m not sure I can dispute that allegation, sir.”

  “Neither can I,” Fred says.

  “But, sir,” Scott says. “With respect—”

  “Just stop calling me sir.”

  “Mr. Graydon,” Scott says quietly. “I say this with the utmost respect as your new security director, who only wants to serve your needs. While I disagree completely with Ed’s insubordination, there is still a very valid school of thought that letting her live out here is too risky.”

  I’m starting to agree with you, he thinks. But that’s not a conversation he can have with them now. It’s not a conversation that should involve Fred at all. Not yet. And it leaves the pesky problem of how to handle the two men in Charlotte’s life, who are both being bigger pains in his ass than Charlotte.

  “What would it take to get some real security around her right away?” Cole asks.

  “It would help if we could assess the nature of the threat,” Scott answers.

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with Jordy Clements. She needs this kind of protection all the time.”

  “So you don’t believe Jordy Clements presents a threat at this time?”

  “I think Jordy Clements is a garbage fire, but I’m not sure what type of garbage or how hot he’s going to burn. Meanwhile, I think the peanut gallery back there needs to lay off the caffeine and take up mah-jongg. How’s that?”

  “If there’s any way you could be more specific . . .” Scott says.

  “Digital services is investigating Jordy now. We’ll wait and see what they turn up. But I just stood there and told them they were all safe. And now I find out Ed completely fucked things up here, and on purpose. We have them constantly monitored, but we can’t do anything other than call them if something goes wrong? Jesus!”

  “Just ask for what you want and I’ll make it happen,” Scott says.

  “I want a five-man team, in a van, with Prescott’s house in sight at all times until further notice. Whenever she leaves, I want them following her. How long before we can put that in place?”

  “That depends on their capabilities,” Scott says. “Their skill set, I mean.”

  “I want them capable of scaring the living shit out of anyone who approaches her with what looks like a bad motive. And if they’re not easy to scare, I want them taken out and gotten rid of. How’s that sound?”

  Scott nods, even though it’s clear that once again he’d like Cole to be more specific. Soon he’ll learn. This is Cole being specific.

  “I’d say in the morning at the earliest,” Scott says, “unless we scramble guys here from Stonecut Ridge.”

  “No.”

  From the driver’s seat, Fred says, “Since I’m not getting fired, can I make a suggestion?”

  “Yes,” Cole says.

  “What if we relocate Charley and Luke temporarily, until we’ve got something better in place?”

  Christ, Cole thinks. Imagine the looks on their faces when I tell them I have to whisk them out of town after all the lectures I just gave them on their safety. It’s not worth it. Not if the source of this stink with Jordy and his angry ex turns out to be a weak fart.

  “How long to get at least one person on that house who can see and shoot straight?”

  “We can make that happen quickly,” Scott says.

  “Once we have a team in place, what should they do if they split up?” Fred asks.

  “The team?”

  “No, the peanut gallery.”

  “She’s the priority. If her men want to act like cowboys, they can do it at their own risk. Do we have an update on Lacey Shannon? Maybe Ed hired her as our new office manager before he left.”

  Fred laughs silently, but Scott looks serious.

  “Her SIM card went dead two days ago,” Scott says.

  “Dead?”

  “No signal at all. Like it was destroyed.”

  “Two days ago . . . What time?”

  “Eleven p.m.”

  A half hour after I called the station and told Luke to let Jordy go, Cole thinks. So either Lacey destroyed her own SIM card to avoid being tracked, or Prescott’s right and I set her killer free.

  “Freeway’s coming up,” Fred says. “Which way am I headed?”

  “See if the airport’s got a hangar or an office I can use.”

  “I doubt it, sir,” Scott says. “It’s pretty threadbare, but I’ll check.”

  “Just find me a hotel, then. And let the plane go. I don’t want to pay out the ass for it while it just sits there. And bring me my helicopter. That always puts me in a better mood.”

  “I’m not sure we can find a hotel in the area that’s up to your . . . standards,” Scott says.

  “A motel’s fine. I don’t need five-star room service. Just privacy.”

  “For what, if I may ask?” Scott asks.

  “A videoconfere
nce. I’ll also need a secure line on my laptop. Call the office. They can set that up remotely.”

  Scott nods. “I’ll need to say who the conference is with.”

  “Donald Clements, Jordy’s father.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but wouldn’t it be easier just to call him?”

  “No. I want to see his face when I tell him about the trouble his son’s causing me.”

  After Cole’s team drove off into the rolling golden hills, Luke walked halfway up the dock, as if their departure were pulling him on a string. Now he’s standing where he stopped, his back to Charley and Marty.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he says.

  “What?” Charley asks.

  Luke turns. He doesn’t look excited, but at least he seems calmer now that Cole’s gone.

  “Someone who might be able to help us,” he says.

  “Help us do what?” Marty asks.

  Charley has a sixth sense about where this is headed. Suddenly the pit of her stomach feels very cold.

  “Find Lacey. Maybe find some stuff on Jordy. More than what was on the flash drive, and maybe a nice sampling of what was so we can make up for the fact that Cole just stole it. So we can give it to the right people.”

  “Luke,” Charley says.

  He starts walking toward them. “Now just hear me out. I’m sure there’s a way we can reach him. Honestly, I don’t think he ever stopped listening in. If Cole’s guys are also listening, he probably found a way around them. So maybe if we just stand in my living room and say the right words like last time, he’ll—”

  “Luke.”

  Something in her voice stops him in his tracks. His mouth goes slack; he’s studying her face with increasing alarm. “Oh, no,” he finally says. “What? What happened to my brother?”

  “He’s OK . . . I guess.”

  “You guess? What does that mean? Did somebody catch him? Somebody caught him and Cole didn’t do anything?”

  “No,” Charley says, “not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? Charley. Come on. What?”

  It seems to hit Luke in a quick rush, and suddenly he’s closed his eyes and he’s shaking his head back and forth and he’s moving to the bench and taking a seat as if his knees are about to go out from under him. “Oh, no,” he mutters, “oh no, oh no. Christ.”

  “What am I missing here?” Marty asks.

  “Bailey’s working for Cole now,” Charley says.

  “Shit,” Luke whispers.

  “OK,” Marty says, “but how is that any different than when he was working for us? I mean, no offense, but Bailey’s basically been sleeping and breathing crime since he was a kid.”

  “It was different,” Luke says.

  “OK, but how?”

  “Because he’s my brother.”

  At this snakelike response, Marty holds up his hands and steps back. It wasn’t the smartest and most mature reaction on Luke’s part, but he’s shocked and hurting, and Charley doesn’t blame him.

  “How long have you known this?” Luke asks.

  “Just a few days. Apparently he was living on some kind of Russian troll farm. Now he’s not.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, Luke. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you know?” Luke asks.

  “All right now,” Marty warns, “it’s not her fault.”

  “No,” Charley says, “he’s got a right to be upset.”

  “I’m sorry,” Luke mutters. “I just . . . What do you know?”

  “He’s how they’re finding the killers. The ones I go after.”

  “Oh, OK,” Marty says. “Well, he’s using his powers for good, then. Maybe they’ll use him to find the smoking gun on Jordy and his merry band of shit monsters.”

  “Uh-huh,” Luke says, “and that info will go where and do what exactly?”

  Marty doesn’t respond; maybe because he just noticed Charley’s look telling him not to.

  His elbows resting on his knees, Luke stares out at the lake, occasionally brushing his chin with his clasped hands. She hasn’t seen him this close to tears in a while. Maybe it’s a testament to his character. After all the trauma they’ve been through, the one thing that still gets to him is Bailey, his only living blood relative.

  “My brother.” There’s a stammer in his voice, but he takes a deep breath and continues. “Every time I try to help him, every time I try to make us a family, he throws it back in my face like it’s shit. Like it’s complete shit. And now this. One of the most powerful men in the world offers to give him a clean slate so he can come home and actually have a family, and what does he do? I mean, what the hell does he do? He goes to work for the guy! He chooses to stay a criminal. He’d rather live in hiding than ever lay eyes on me again.”

  “Well,” Marty says, “he’s got a habit of spying on people through their devices, so maybe he’s laying eyes on you all the time and you just don’t know it.”

  “Marty, please stop helping,” Charley whispers.

  “Sorry,” Marty mumbles.

  “Luke,” she says, “we don’t actually know if Cole really made that offer to Bailey. It might have been conditional.”

  “What do you mean?” Luke asks.

  “Meaning Cole said you either go to work for me or your record stays the way it is and you freeze to death in Russia every winter.”

  “Maybe,” Luke says. True or not, this possibility doesn’t seem to dull his pain.

  Nobody says anything for a while. Once again, a sound that should be peaceful, the gentle lapping of the lake water against the sides of the dock, feels as invasive as harsh knocks against a thin door.

  “I just need a minute,” Luke says. “OK? Can I have a minute to myself?”

  Before Charley can say anything, Marty gently takes her arm and starts leading her away from the bench. “Sure thing, podnah,” he says. “We’ll be right over here when you need us.”

  They’re halfway up the dock when Charley says, “This sucks.”

  “Hardest thing you ever have to do in a relationship.”

  “What, telling them what they don’t want to hear?” she asks.

  “Nope,” Marty says. “Giving ’em a minute.”

  31

  The problem with Pete Henricks, Jordy Clements realizes once they’ve left town, is that he can’t focus.

  When he first met the guy, he seemed like a pretty good listener. But now that Henricks feels more comfortable in Jordy’s presence, he won’t shut up, and it’s giving Jordy a protracted and unwanted glimpse into the guy’s squirrelly mind.

  One minute the dude’s talking about how when he was a kid he almost drove into that old oak they just sped past; the next second, he’s explaining how the women he’s dated were all proof that there’s a connection between an inability to measure spatial relationships and a lack of emotional discipline. In women, that is.

  Maybe he’s nervous about this unexpected ride out of town. Or maybe he’s just a class-A idiot. Given his behavior the past few days, Jordy figures it’s the latter. But he wants to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. For the next hour or two, at least.

  Shortly after he got to town, Jordy had some of his guys follow all four of the regular sheriff’s deputies for several weeks to see which one might be the most amenable to a new business arrangement. The reports all came back the same: Pete Henricks was the best candidate. A lifelong resident of Altamira and a community college dropout, he was rumored to have declared bankruptcy before getting hired by the department. He also had a rep for explaining to anyone who would listen how common sense was usually the best sense and government usually made a mess of things.

  Luke Prescott, on the other hand, was a no go. By all accounts, the guy was an asshole who fancied himself too good for his hometown, probably thanks to his higher education. No doubt his time in San Francisco, Sodom by the Sea, had indoctrinated him in all sorts of diseased ways of thinking.

  And boy, had that turned out to be the truth.<
br />
  He had to give props to the guys who’d warned him off Prescott.

  But those same guys had steered him toward Henricks. Should he blame himself for making the final call or take it out on the foot soldiers who steered him in Henricks’s direction? That would all depend on what was about to transpire up here in the mountains just west of town.

  “You think maybe eventually they’ll build up here?” Henricks asks. “Everyone acts like they should be preserved, but the views are rockin’, and if there’s gonna be more to look at down valley, with all the development and all—hell, I’d build up here if I had the money.”

  Please tell me this asshole isn’t hitting me up for more money, Jordy thinks. Is he actually asking me for a raise after he fucked up so badly?

  “How long you lived here, Henricks?” Milo asks.

  Their driver, Jordy’s right-hand man, is almost too large to fit inside his own truck. Milo has a thing about disclosing his height. Like the actual number is a source of strength so long as it’s a secret, sort of like Samson’s hair if Samson always wore it in a bun. Six foot four, that’s Jordy’s guess. There was a time, back when he and Milo fought together in Iraq and then Afghanistan, when Milo was all lean muscle; now he’s bulk and a bit of bloat, most of it from steroids, but they’ve turned the man into a human wall, and Jordy likes that just fine. Because that’s what Jordy needs around him now. Sturdy, protective walls.

  “My whole life,” Henricks answers, “you know that. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  Milo looks in the rearview mirror, probably so he can gauge whether Henricks is actually annoyed. Sunset’s a few hours away, but it’s already near dark on this side of the mountains, so it’s not easy to make out Milo’s expression in the deepening shade. But with Milo, it’s the eyes that do the trick. There’s something that always looks sympathetic about them, even when he’s getting ready to bash in a guy’s skull. Sympathetic and steady. Strangely inviting.

  If Henricks is starting to get suspicious—they’ve never offered to swing by his place and pick him up before—one look into Milo’s steady, welcoming gaze should calm him right now.

  “Just got a lot of details floating around in my head, is all,” Milo says. “No offense intended, my friend.”